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Memories We Forget, Michael Dax Iacovone

Theses and Dissertations

I have always preferred the journey to the destination. When I was growing up, my family drove back and forth between Florida and New York every summer. My father did the driving, my mother sat next to him, and my older brother and sister sat in the back seat. This left the cavernous back of the family station wagon for me and the luggage. There was no radio, very little conversation, and I didn't sleep. I spent these summer trips staring for endless hours, out of the back window of the car, transfixed on the expanse of open road behind …